Where Miss Snark vented her wrath on the hapless world of writers and crushed them to sand beneath her T.Rexual heels of stiletto snark. The blog is dark--no further updates after 5/20/2007.

9.23.2005

Get thee behind me, old Ned

Dear Miss Snark:

Uncle Ned, he of the accountant's black visor and moth-eaten cardigan, does not believe what you say. More precisely, he does not believe you exist.

Each afternoon at 12:15 sharp, I open the door to the room that we have built adjacent to the utility closet and bring him his lunch. Routine is one of Uncle Ned's greatest strengths. If there is not a dash of paprika coloring his egg salad, I will hear about it. Variety is tolerated only on Fridays when, in anticipation of the weekend, a handful of Doritos is added to his plate.

He looks up from the ledger on his desk and rubs his eyes. "So tell me again about this Miss Snark."

I gush with enthusiasm about the latest wisdom in your blog, throwing in the occasional word play that is your forte.

"No," he says. "Tell me about her."

"She is anonymous."

He arches his eyebrows, which in recent years have grown as wooly as the caterpillars that are predicting another long, cold winter.

"She drinks gin. She wants to go to Antarctica. She has this thing for George Clooney."

"Clooney? She never should have run off with that Jose Ferrer. Hooked her on narcotics, that's what he did," Uncle Ned says, leaning back on his oak swivel chair. "But boy, that girl could sing. You put paprika in the salad today?"

"You're thinking of Rosemary Clooney. She likes George Clooney."

He slashes his arm through the air as if cutting the space between us. "A Clooney is a Clooney."

Old Ned, poor Ned, he's dissed Mr. Clooney, now he is sooooooooooo dead.

Besides, I don't drink gin, I swill it.

Uncle Ned does not believe in computers. He does not believe in the internet. He lives in a world where people do not go dispensing valuable information for free.

Uncle Ned scoffs at the notion of gin. His preferred beverage is rabbit juice. Yes, rabbit juice. It is a quantifiable experience-- $87 per bottle, found only behind the counters at disreputable health food stores. One day, I fear I may smash the bottle over his head. Can you see what I'm up against?

First, he disses Mr. ClooneyThen, he disses Miss Snark's very existence,and now, the final insult, he disses GIN.

Miss Snark will be sending her second (suitably uniformed) with a challenge to a duel.Anagrams at forty paces!Times crossword puzzles...in ink!speed reading Finnegans Wake for comprehension tests!

Winner gets the blog! Loser leaves town!

Killer Yapp the junkyard poodle will be on your doorstep in an hour awaiting your answer.